


Every Piece of Me

by EternalFangirl



Series: Season 8 can pry Pol!Jon and Jonsa from my cold dead hands [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), game of thrones
Genre: 8x04 rewrite, And of him, And then she takes care of it, Anti Daenerys, Because you can't tell me Jon wants to bang her, Cos I love him and so does she, Dany is the one doing it, Dubious Consent, Except the physical abuse, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I mean she doesn't do anything she didn't do in canon, Jon and Sansa talk, Now with added SenseTM, Physical Abuse, Political Jon, Sacrificial Jon, Sansa takes care of Jon, She physically abuses Jon, So yeah, That is all mine, They bang off screen, To Jon, but don't worry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2020-05-02 03:25:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19190959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalFangirl/pseuds/EternalFangirl
Summary: Jonsa and Pol!Jon rewrite of 8x04, where Dany is not only emotionally but also physically abusive to Jon after the feast. Sansa sees the signs, and realizes what is happening. We see the girls react to R+L=J, and we see Jon heal when surrounded by his very stubborn pack.  With the end of the world abated, and everything he has ever loved in the balance, he talks. About Daenerys and what waking the dragon actually means. Why he will gladly stand in the line of fire to save his pack.And then Sansa takes care of it.





	1. The Dragon Demands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meerareads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meerareads/gifts), [Janina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janina/gifts).



> Trigger warning for mentions of physical abuse (mild) and also dubious sexual consent (Jon doesn't see it as problematic, but me and Sansa both do).
> 
> Thanks for the reading this through and giving it the thumbs up, meerareads! I love you babe!! Kick ass in your last exam <3

There was a new bruise on Jon’s face.

 

Sansa wondered if anyone else had noticed it. There were so many reasons not to, after all. His beard covered nearly all of the angry red mark, and bruises were so common in Winterfell right now. She had a keep full of wounded people, scarred and broken from a fight with their worst nightmares. Why should anyone look at Jon and see anything less than a hero? Why shouldn’t they assume he got that bruise in the battle? Who would dare harm  _ him, _ the greatest living swordsman of Westeros?

 

She shouldn’t even have noticed, truth be told. But she had spent the better part of the morning staring at his face, at the way he talked to his queen, the differential way he was standing, making himself even smaller than he already was, less threatening, arms dutifully behind his back. She was trying to see, to figure it all out. Something was wrong. She saw the furtive looks and the careful platitudes, and she knew.

 

No, maybe no one else noticed. But she did.

 

Bile rose up in her throat, with the burn of angry, impotent tears that she was all too familiar with. She set her jaw, raised her chin, and willed her tears back down. Now was not the time. Jon was talking of laying a siege, and the dragon queen wanted to set sail with all her tired and wounded soldiers. All of Sansa’s, too.

 

“The men we have left are exhausted,” she said. Jon turned to look at her, his shoulders stooped and defeated. He missed the icy glare his queen sent her way. “Many of them are wounded. They'll fight better if they have time to rest and recuperate.”

 

The dragon queen did not like that, she could tell, but Sansa did not care. The men--including the Dothraki and the Unsullied--were under  _ her _ care, eating from her stores and healed by her maester. She would not let them march off to another war when they could barely stand for the most part. She had seen the vacant looks and exhausted emptiness in their eyes, had helped them learn how to care for their wounds. Had the dragon queen even visited her men to raise morale?  _ They are not pieces on a cyvasse board, _ she wanted to tell her.  _ The long march South will kill them. _

 

But Jon spoke up, glaring her like she was committing some crime by speaking up for the men who had suffered for them. His words were firm and brooked no argument, but she could not look away from the red bruise blooming on his cheek. She could not feel any anger, just a mounting discomfort.  _ What has she done to you? _ His queen was smaller than he was, delicate as an exotic flower.

 

A dragon screeched outside, as if reminding her of its mother’s strength. She wanted to scream.

 

“The men will fight better if they are rested,” said Ser Jorah gently, waiting patiently for his queen to look at him. “We have too few numbers to leave men behind, your Grace. A few weeks of care, of warm food in their bellies… It might make all the difference in the battle to come.”

 

The queen didn’t say anything for a while, and Sansa began to hope. She was the breaker of chains, was she not? Any woman who had compassion enough to show to slaves had to be able to see to the welfare of her own men, surely. She might not trust Sansa, but she would have to trust her own advisors.

 

“I don’t need them complacent and well rested,” the queen finally said in the voice she perhaps thought sounded tough and commanding. To Sansa, it always felt like the voice of a petulant child. “I need them ready to battle, to win me the throne they owe me.” She looked at Jon, and he looked at the ground in a somewhat haphazard imitation of a bow.

 

_ We don’t owe you anything _ , thought Sansa.  _ This is your kingdom that you protected, against death itself.  _ She took a deep breath.  _ Who manipulated whom? _

 

“We will wait a couple of weeks,” the queen said finally. “In that time, I need reports on the men, on how many will be ready to march with us, and how many we will be leaving behind.”

 

And just like that, they were done. When Arya stood in Jon’s path, when she told him they needed a word, Sansa realized that she wasn’t the only one who had noticed the bruise.

“We needed her,” Jon said stubbornly, staring at the red leaves of the weirwood tree, and Sansa tried to feel the anger she usually felt when he said such things. But there was no anger, only pain. He had been laughing last night, grinning at Tormund’s drunken antics. What had happened? She remembered her own dark bruises, mapped out on her body like a gruesome painting, and set her chin. The ones he had gotten in the battle against the dead were likely gone by now. The Dragon Queen did not get to give him more.

 

_ This is my home. It’s ours. And Jon belongs to us too. No amount of dragons will make him truly hers. _

 

“Jon,” she said, her voice quiet. “Why did she hit you?”

 

Jon reared back as though she had slapped him too. He looked ready to argue, to tell her she was wrong, and she understood that need, to deny you were in pain, to deny the lack of control over your own body. She understood it all. How far had the dragon queen gone, then? Was there a new map across his body too?

 

Jon didn’t insult her by denying it. Instead, he said something worse. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

Before she could think of what to say, Arya had grabbed his arm. “But this is her doing?” Jon was frowning, but she shook him by the arm, pulling him down till she could look him in the eye. “She did this, didn’t she, Jon?” Her tone was colder than the snow that surrounded them, colder than the long night had been. It promised retribution, not with fiery bluster, but with quiet, cold, certainty.

 

Still, Jon would not answer. Was he afraid to, somehow? The Dragon Queen would never know if he let them know the truth. Was he afraid  _ for  _ her, then? Afraid of what Arya would do to his beloved queen if she knew for sure?

 

“Arya,” he said, and his voice was so soft and so broken that Sansa wanted to weep. “You shouldn’t worry about me.”

 

His smile finally made tears spring to Sansa’s eyes. It wasn’t the sadness in his expression that bothered her, it was the weary resignation of a man who believed he deserved what was happening to him. She stepped forward, willing him to look at her. “How can we not? We’re family, Jon, the four of us. The last of the Starks.” 

 

Jon started to say something, stopped, then started again. “I’ve never been a Stark,” he said finally. He wouldn’t meet their eyes.

 

“You are just as much Ned Stark’s child as any of us,” she insisted.

 

“You’re my brother,” said Arya, stepping forward to stand next to Sansa. “Not my half brother or my bastard brother. My  _ brother. _ ”

 

_ Good, _ thought Sansa _. Let Arya’s words penetrate that thick skull of his.  _ But something was wrong, and Jon was shaking his head, and… there was something eating away at him. She could tell. It was in the way he closed him eyes, the way Bran urged him to make his own choice.

 

And then he made them swear never to tell any other living soul his secret, before changing their world forever.

 

_ No,  _ thought Sansa absurdly, as Bran told them of a secret wedding and a prince born with the weight of the world on his tiny shoulders.  _ This is nonsensical, a dream, a myth, a misunderstanding.  _ But it wasn’t, she realized as Bran continued. She could feel Jon shifting behind them, could feel the agony coming off of him like heat off the hot springs, but she couldn’t look away from the inappropriately calm face of the boy who had once been her brother. He broke her worldview with calm, measured words and cold, hard facts. It was true, all of it. Only the truth could have so much detail.

 

Arya turned away first, when Bran was done, when the world had splintered into a hundred jagged pieces only to stitch itself together with a threatening secret hiding in the folds. Sansa turned too, her mind both blank and too full of thoughts.

 

Jon was looking at the ground, his shoulders bunched, his gaze shifting on the snow.  _ Waiting to be told he’s not a Stark, not worthy of us. The fool. _

 

“Do you want to summon a dragon and melt me where I stand?” Arya asked, her face serious, her head cocked like she was asking Jon on his preferred form of refreshment.

 

“No!” Jon hadn’t been looking at them, but now his head whipped up, his face shocked. “I… Arya, I would  _ never-- _ ”

 

“Gods, Jon, you’re stupid enough to be a Targaryen, that’s for sure,” said Arya with an eyeroll. “I was joking.”

 

“Joking?” Jon didn’t seem to understand the word.

 

“You’re a trueborn Stark,” said Sansa. “Born to a Stark, in wedlock. You’re not a bastard.”  _ Instead, you’re the heir to the iron throne, the man who can end Daenerys’ reign before it even begins. _

 

“I… I’d much rather be Jon Snow.”

 

“Good,” said Arya, rushing forward to hug him. His arms clasped around her as if she was the only thing tethering him to the world, as if his very life force sprouted from that connection. “As long as you finish my sentences with me, you’re my brother.” This time when Jon’s face crumpled into near tears, Sansa’s own tears slipped free to flow down her cheeks. 

 

She made herself smile. There would be time enough to worry about him and his queen later. “Well, it has a lot less syllables, at least.” Jon looked at her over Arya’s shoulder, and nodded. There was a quiet acknowledgement of the fact that this was complicated, that there were questions and problems to tackle. Soon. But not now. Right now there was only one thing she wanted to make clear. “You’re one of us, Jon. We are the last of the Starks.”

 

This time he didn’t argue.

* * *

 


	2. Whispers after midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa can't sleep. Its a good thing that Jon can't either, because she has questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the enthusiastic cheerleading Meera! And thanks for reminding me to post this, Emilie!

She could not sleep.

 

In a way, she was glad for the busy day she had endured, because she hadn’t had time to think about Jon, or his queen, or his secret. She hadn’t seen him since their meeting in the godswood. He had left, hastily wiping tears, to talk to the Northern captains, and she had left to meet Lord Royce and discuss the supply of grain that was supposed to arrive from the Vale a week ago. She hadn’t seen him after that, and hadn’t had time to wonder how he was feeling with the weight of this new truth.

 

But now, there was nothing to distract her from the enormity of this problem. There was only the gentle sound of the fire, and the pretty play of firelight on the ceiling, and her thoughts scrambling from one realization to the other, jumbling up and tumbling around till sleep became a distant memory.

 

_ He bed his aunt. She hit him. Jon is trueborn. She knows who he is. Jon is our cousin.She didn’t want us to know. She doesn’t care about his birthright. No, that’s not right. She is afraid of it. Afraid of what he might do. _

 

_ She is afraid of what I might do. _

 

Sighing, she rose and reached for her night rail. There were far more important things than a good night’s rest, and staying here was driving her crazy. A walk might help clear her mind. Her boots were freezing, and she wondered if she should put another pair of socks on, but shrugged it off. She wasn’t going outside the keep, after all.

 

The dragon queen was a problem, she knew that for certain. Any action that Sansa could have taken against her was obviously curtailed by the presence of her dragons, her  _ children _ , that could cause devastation in a single breath. She understood now why Jon had done all he could to bring her here, to make sure they had dragons in the fight against the dead.

 

But, as always, he hadn’t thought too far ahead. 

 

Or maybe he had. Maybe there was a plan somewhere in that thick skull of his, something she could help with, something she could plan for. Was he really in love with such a dangerous woman? All these years away from home, he had only fallen in love with one woman, a woman he left when duty called. The dragon queen was beautiful, granted, but--

 

She nearly laughed out loud when she realized where her feet had carried her. The one man that could answer all her questions was probably sleeping on the other side of the door. She knocked even before she could think about the inappropriateness of the hour, before she could let herself wonder if he was warming a different bed tonight. But barely a few moments passed before Jon’s scratchy voice asked who it was, and Sansa opened the door to slip into his bedchamber.

 

She gasped when she realized her folly. Jon wasn’t exactly dressed for company. He stood in the middle of the room, wearing only his breeches.

 

_ There’s too much skin,  _ was her first absurd thought. His chambers were colder than hers, and she wondered why his sleep tunic was lying at the foot of his bed. She met his startled gaze, color rising to her cheeks.

 

“Sansa, I was just--” he started at the same moment she absurdly stated, “I had questions.”

 

They both paused, and she saw the color rise in his cheeks too. The light from the hearth was making shadows move on his face, and for a moment she stared. You could hardly see the bruise in this light... She looked away, silently scolding herself for staring, and noticed the pot of liniment lying open on his mantel.

 

Jon broke the silence. “The pain, my shoulder is too stiff… I--I couldn’t sleep, so I--Sansa.” He waited till she looked at him. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I had questions,” she repeated. He nodded, and began to reach for his tunic. “You can care for the shoulder in my presence, Jon. I have seen you in less clothing than this. Do the wounds on your leg still bother you as well?”

 

He flushed. “No.” Slowly, his gaze gauging her reaction, he dipped the fingers of his left hand into the small pot of medicine. She stepped forward, trying not to watch as he gingerly coated his shoulder. “You had questions? It’s the hour of the wolf, Sansa.”

 

“I had questions I have been thinking of all night long,” she said. His bruises looked better. “I have been thinking about… about what--”

 

“About your father lying to me all my life?” Jon said in a carelessly flippant tone, turning around to get his tunic. She wondered if he really thought she didn’t notice the pain in those words.

 

_ He was your father too, certainly more than Rhaegar ever was. _ Sansa wanted to say those words, but they fled her tongue when she noticed the new marks on his back. She ruthlessly stifled the gasp that wanted to leave her lips, not wanting to alert him to his folly in turning his back to her.

 

She knew what nails felt like, tearing through your skin, the long gouges they could make, the way the wounds could sting for days afterwards, splitting open with every step, every action. Myranda’s nails had been sharp, nearly as sharp as the bastard’s blades. She stepped forward without thinking, anguish seizing her throat. Jon’s back looked like he had been mauled by a wild animal, bite marks nearly hidden by his hair where his neck met his shoulder.

 

He stiffened before he turned, shoulders tensing, nail marks bunching together before splitting apart with his quick exhale. “Sansa,” he pleaded when he saw the anguish in her eyes, though she didn’t know what he was asking for.

 

“Your queen did this,” Sansa said as Jon laced up his tunic. “She… marked you.”

 

He flinched, then nodded, even though it wasn’t a question. “I… She--She was...” He looked at his bed, then away, his cheeks aflame.

 

_ Bedding you, _ thought Sansa.  _ Fucking you. Claiming what is mine.  _ That thought surprised her, but she embraced the anger, hot and roiling inside of her. “Did you...” The words wouldn’t come. She swallowed, stepped closer, and spat them out. “Did you enjoy it?” She tried not to let his scandalized expression deter her. “Some people like… that.” Myranda had certainly enjoyed the pain that Ramsey bestowed upon her. She cocked her head. “Did you?”

 

“Sansa.”

 

“Jon.” She was going to back down.

 

They stared at each other for several moments before he exhaled and sat down at the foot of his bed with a defeated sigh. “No,” he said to the rushes beneath her feet. “I don’t… I don’t particularly like--”

 

“Being treated like a cheap whore?” Why was she mad at _him?_ She wanted to gentle her tone, but the anger was red hot and fresh, and it bubbled over into her words. “Being marked by the dragon queen? You’re letting her do it. You’re letting her hurt you.”

 

There it was, that sad smile once again. She wanted to embrace him, love him, support him, but her treacherous mouth was filled with angry words that demanded answers. She took a deep breath, swallowing them back.

 

He looked at her now, the smile disappearing. “She… gets angry sometimes. I can distract-- She likes it if I-- Her anger… Sansa.” His sigh seemed to come from deep within. “If she doesn’t have me, she will hurt you.” Even to speak of it was agony to him, it was plain to see. “You, and Bran, and Arya. It doesn’t matter what she does to me. I have scars enough that a new one here or there makes no matter, and if she sometimes gets overzealous when we-- in bed, I can handle it.” 

 

And just like that, her anger was gone. She stepped forward, reached out, and cupped his face. His beard was too long, and it felt scratchy on her palms. She could trim it for him… “Jon.” She waited till he met her gaze, till she was certain he was listening to her. “You  _ are _ a Stark, you know that, right?”

 

“That’s kind of you to say,” he said, but she scoffed, and he stopped. He leaned into her touch, probably surprised she had made such a sound.

 

“It’s not  _ kind  _ of me. I am not bestowing a title on you, you pigheaded idiot. I am saying that I see what you are doing, how you think that since you are not a true Stark--in your stupid peasized brain--you should be the one to tackle this dragon bitch, to protect us from her. You complete oaf!”

 

Jon’s mouth was hanging open. She was kind of surprised herself, because she had never used such language before. It felt wonderful to finally yell at him, however. “I… have never heard you speak like that.”

 

“I have never heard me speak like that either.”

 

“You’re my responsibility, Sansa.”

 

“And you are mine.” Her words were soft now. When she moved her fingers to grip around the back of his neck, he leaned into her touch, drawing comfort from where her thumbs cradled his jaw. “You’re important, and definitely not as expendable as you seem to think.”

 

“Why not?” He stood up, and now they were standing to close. But his hand had grabbed her wrist, and she wasn’t ready to shrug off his warm touch. “The Night King is dead, Sansa! It’s done. That’s why the fucking Lord of Light brought me back, right? It’s why my mother died, why Uncle Brandon and Grandfather died, it’s why the Rebellion happened. If it weren’t for me, they would all be alive! I killed--I killed her. My mother. I killed them all. And now I have brought  _ her  _ here, and she’s going to take all that I love from me… One word, and you are aflame. One word, and it is the end of House Stark.” 

 

She didn’t contest his words, didn’t tell him that he did what he had to, that whatever happened all those years ago was not the fault of a newborn babe. She understood what he was feeling, to some extent. He didn’t love himself anymore, so she would just have to show him that he was still loved. Still worthy of them, of their care, of their love, of their name, of their pack. 

 

She took her hands off him. “Take off your tunic.”

 

He jolted and stepped back, blinking at her in confusion. When she tugged at the hem of his sleepshirt, he hastily took it off, his eyes gaze still set on her. “What are you--?”

 

She ignored him and got the nettle paste from the mantle. “Turn around.”

 

His outburst seemed to have made Jon obedient, and he dutifully turned around to present the nasty scratches to her.

 

“They hurt more than they should,” she told him conversationally. “I hated the nail marks. Such tiny things, not even worthy of a scar, but still painful beyond belief.” 

 

His shoulders tensed, and he instinctively jerked away with a hiss when she began to apply the salve. “Sansa--”

 

“It will not do,” she interrupted. “Your plan, of placating the dragon queen… it won’t work, for starters. She believes that she is owed the entire world.” She smoothed some of the green paste on the bite mark that was nearly hidden by his hair. “And even more importantly, the cost of this is too high.”

 

“It’s not,” he argued. “I can--” He hissed when she dug her finger a little too deeply into an angry purple bruise.

 

“It’s not up for discussion, Jon.” His skin was warm and soft, and she carefully avoided touching any more purple skin. “I won’t hear it. Do you… do you love her, Jon?”

 

His laugh surprised her, and she smiled, watching his shoulders jump with his mirth. “I… no, definitely not.”

 

“Do you want to go South?” A single, smooth glide down the gash that ran down most of his spine. 

 

“I don’t have a choice. I gave my word.”

 

She simply hummed. “You can put your tunic back on.”

 

He turned, his smile crooked and soft. “Thank you, Sansa.”

 

“Well, you’re very welcome, Jon.” She said it formally, wanting to see his smile grow, but instead he moved forward and hugged her, his breath leaving in an anguished whoosh. She carefully placed her hands on his shoulders, trying not to smear her handiwork. “Jon?”

 

“I...” He started to move back, but she didn’t let him. He just collapsed into her, his face buried in her hair, and she imagined all the roiling thoughts in his mind quieting down, letting him finally breathe. He was holding on to her like he had held on to Arya in the godswood, like she was his only tether to life, to sanity, to himself. Her heart was breaking for him. “Thank you.”

 

“Shh,” she soothed, running her hand down his back, ignoring the fact that he hadn’t put his tunic back on. He needed her. “It’s alright, Jon. Everyone needs a hug sometimes. Even men who returned from the dead.” She smiled when he huffed a laugh into her neck.

 

They stayed still in the comfortable silence for a while, Jon breathing deeply and Sansa staring at the fire roaring behind him. The colors looked pretty, and cast his skin in shadows of red and gold. She hit a patch of salve along his spine, and adjusted the path of her hand.

 

By the time Jon moved, she was lulled into a sort of stupor. When was the last time she had felt this calm, this content? He was strong, and kind, and she was going to help him. They were going to be alright. She smiled when Jon moved, but all he did was turn his face further into her neck, his nose slightly cold where it rested against the side of her throat. She tilted her head to the other side before thinking, giving him some more room. Then he moved again, and again, his nose carving a smooth, cool path on her throat.

 

_ This is wrong,  _ she thought through her calm haze. She should stop this. Her hand moved to cup his nape, her fingers sifting through his hair, but she didn’t move back, didn’t tug him away. He was so warm, and strong, and  _ hers.  _ The thought thrilled her instead of disgusting her, and she let him slide his nose in a meandering path down her throat.  _ We aren’t doing anything wrong,  _ she thought when he reached her collarbone.  _ He’s family, and in need of a little comfort.  _ Jon’s hands were wrapped around her waist now.  _ I have had far worse stolen from me than I give him readily.  _

 

Was he in his right mind, though?  _ He’s been emotional today,  _ she thought as Jon nuzzled the hollow of her throat.  _ Maybe he wants… a different type of company.  _ She frowned at the bed, trying to imagine some girl in there, moaning as he moved in her, the play of firelight on his sweaty skin... But then Jon moved even further down and breath and thought left her instantly.

 

For an instant, when he hit the barrier of her neckline, she wished it hadn’t been there. His breath was hot and wet, and his beard left a delicious tingling behind on her sensitive skin. She wondered how it would feel on the swell of her breasts, had she not been wearing her night rail. He nosed at it, nuzzling like a babe seeking comfort, and her fists clenched in his hair without conscious thought, imagining his soft lips elsewhere. 

 

Jon moaned then, and that seemed to snap him out of his daze.

 

He stiffened, and suddenly there was no hot breath on her.  _ No, wait!  _ He was already moving away, breaking out of the circle of her arms, taking all his warmth with him.  _ Come back…  _ His eyes looked wild, hungry in a way that thrilled her, but Jon’s expression was somewhere between horrified and guilty. She could feel nothing other than loss at the way he put distance between them.  _ It felt so good. _ “Jon--”

 

But he was already out the door, leaving her standing in his chambers, her panting breaths loud in the empty room.

* * *

 


	3. The Game Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa asks Jon about Daenerys, and the players all come to the board. A game of cunning requires different skillsets, after all. Neither of these idiots discuss the beard-burn adorning Sansa's chest because Jon would self-combust if Sansa told him about it, and she knows it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, hi? Sorry, I know. I _know_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> But... I got a job? My first ever? And holy shit how do other working people ever have time for _anything_ else? Like, it fucking sucks you dry.
> 
> Fun fact, the first scene of this was already written (like four months ago) but it took me a day to remember what the purpose of the scene was.
> 
> I'll shut up now, since I have made y'all wait enough as it is.

A few years ago, knocking on Arya Stark’s door even an hour past sunrise would have had questionable results. You could get cursed at in a childish voice, or completely ignored, or even go unheard because the little unconventional lady was still sleeping.

 

Sansa wondered whether she should be saddened by how quickly her knock was answered in the hour before dawn. Did Arya even sleep anymore? What sort of nightmares plagued her? Were there men in her life too, ones who had taken advantage of a young girl with no one to take care of her?

 

“Are you just going to stand there and stare? Because this is getting annoying.”

 

Sansa shook off her thoughts, vowing to come back to them later. Right now, she had more important things to discuss. “I… I think I need your help.”

 

The easy grin disappeared, and the furrowed brows smoothened out in an instant. This was the person she had become in her time away, the one that still scared Sansa, the one that gave nothing away at all. “What do you need?”

 

“A quiet place to discuss things, for now.” Sansa didn’t wait to be invited, and simply walked into the chambers Arya had had since she was a child.  “Close the door, Arya. We have work to do.”

 

* * *

It was barely light enough outside to call dawn when Sansa set out in search of Lord Varys. Even so, most of the castle was awake by the time she found him coming out of the wine cellars, hands tucked into sleeves to ward off the cold, head bowed to attract less attention. He didn’t notice her till she called out to him.

 

“It’s early yet to be drinking, my Lord.”

 

She was slightly impressed by the way he didn’t jolt. Instead, his smile was warm and a little sheepish. If she didn’t know who he was, she would have only marked him as a simpering sycophant unworthy of her attention.

 

“It’s too cold in the mornings for a Southron man, my Lady,” said Lord Varys softly, nodding at her in greeting. “I find some wine to be an excellent start to a miserably cold day.”

 

She stepped up to him, the better to gauge his reaction to her next question. “Did you find any little birds down there?”

 

A flicker of surprise, a dash of annoyance. For a moment, his face became completely blank as he decided on his answer. Then he smiled. “Perhaps.” 

 

“I do believe I never thanked you properly for your help in King’s Landing, my lord. I have been remiss. I should have thanked you for trying to save my father in King’s Landing. And for the lemon cakes.”

 

He had opened his smiling mouth to accept her gratitude, but now he frowned. “Lemon cakes?”

 

She knew he remembered. There was likely nothing that the Spider didn’t remember. “Yes, my Lord. The little girl was very worried that the queen’s spies would see her. But she insisted on me having those cakes. So, I thank you for sending them.”

 

For a moment, he said nothing. His head cocked, as if he were looking at some fascinating new creature. Sansa studied him back, waiting for him to speak. “Would you like to talk in private, my lady?”

 

She smiled, pleased.  

* * *

It was hard not to blush like a maiden when she saw Jon again. 

 

Thankfully, the Great Hall was empty since it was so early in the morning. No one saw the unflattering color her face turned, or the way Jon dribbled some of his ale down his chin. He wiped it hastily, looked around, and resolutely stared at the bacon he held in his hand. Sansa was somehow grateful for the loss of eye contact. Her chest tingled with the memory of the liberties he had taken in the soft darkness of her chambers. Early this morning, she had discovered the redness that his beard had felt behind. It made her giddy to think that she had a sign to show her it hadn’t all been a dream, tucked safely away in the folds of her dress.

 

“Good morrow, Jon,” she said, wanting to see him blush too.

 

He didn’t disappoint, and on any other day she would have admonished his mumbled reply. Today, she cherished it.

 

The silence between them was comfortable, which surprised Sansa. She wondered why she wasn’t feeling any shred of shame for what had happened.  _ I have had a lot worse done to me, though. It was just… an embrace.  _ She shook her head at herself, smiling when Ghost seemed to melt out of the shadows with a bloody maw.

 

“Oh, fucking hell.” Jon was out of his seat in an instant, ale sloshing, to grab his wolf by the scruff as if he were still a puppy. “I… Apologies, my lady, I’ll wash him.”

 

“Why?” Sansa was genuinely curious why Jon thought a bloody snout would matter to her. For a brief moment, she thought of the way Ramsay’s blood had dripped off the snouts of his hounds when she had ended him. “He probably just came back from a hunt, Jon, and I am sure you have other things to do.”

 

“I--He’s dripping blood into the hall.”

 

“Barely,” she said. “And I am sure these Halls have seen more blood than this. I am sure he will find the blood itchy once it dries, and wash it off in the springs.” She shrugged. “It’s barely something you need to take charge of. Are you so eager to leave my company?”

 

“No!” The word seemed to have burst out of him, and he quickly regained his seat. “No, of course not Sansa. I--I would never.”

 

She smiled. “Good. Because I have the juiciest bit of gossip to tell you...” She waited until Jon quirked a brow, then leaned forward. “Arya has a man.”

 

Jon reared back, as if trying to leave the conversation without leaving his chair. His face looked like he had eaten a lemon, and she started laughing at the way his entire face scrunched in distaste. "Wh-Sansa, why in the name of all the seven hells would you say that?"

 

Sansa couldn't stop giggling, so she spoke through her mirth. "There was men's clothing scattered all around her chambers this morning."

 

"Anyone could have left--"

 

"Before the castle woke. Before the  _ sun _ rose, Jon." She shouldn't giggle at the way he deflated, she  _ knew _ that. It was just hard not to. She would have to make sure Jon didn't murder the new lord of Storm's End, the most likely suspect. She wondered if Jon knew that, or if he was too dense to understand the way Gendry Baratheon looked at Arya. 

 

_ The way Jon looks at me, when he thinks I'm not looking. _

 

"She's a woman grown, Jon. She's earned the right to decide for herself who should warm her bed." The way Jon's gaze fell to her lips thrilled her. She licked her bottom lip, testing the waters, and wasn't disappointed when Jon's gaze darkened. Was this what lust was meant to look like on a beloved face?

 

"I need to go," Jon said to her lips before meeting her gaze. "The Glover men have been sending pages after me. They want to talk."

 

"About?"

 

He stood up, brushing crumbs from his beard with the back of his hand. "I guess I'll find out."

 

"If I don't see you again, please meet me in my solar when the sun goes down. We will talk of our day

then."

 

She could see how much he wanted to ask why, but he didn't. She appreciated that. She couldn't explain this need to be close to him, even though it wasn't exactly new. They had spent so much time as the only Starks in Winterfell, trying to figure out how to make sense of their new world, with long silences next to the fire that they possibly cherished more than all the times they  _ did  _ talk about their past, or their dreams of the future. His Targaryen blood had colored their time together with shades of possibility, making her heart beat faster every time she caught Jon's wandering gaze.

 

She spent every spare moment of her day thinking about her plan. It was dangerous, of course. She was literally playing with fire. There were so many players that she could not trust completely, so many things that could go wrong… Bran had been annoyingly cryptic when prodded, simply saying that he trusted to do her best. She had wanted to shake him, to demand her little brother back, but hadn’t wanted to argue or linger, unnerved by his serene gaze.

 

By the time Jon knocked on her door that night, she had looked at the puzzle every which way, agonizing over it, arguing with herself, second-guessing herself. She was almost relieved when Jon slipped into her solar, for her tense thoughts seemed to scatter at his nervous smile.

 

“How was your day, Jon?” she asked, nodding to the chair next to her. He sank down immediately, his smile warming.

 

“Long,” he said. “And tiring. The Glovers want the fucking Dreadfort.”

 

Sansa raised an incredulous eyebrow. “That’s a strange jape to play on us, even for Galbart Glover.”

 

Jon’s smile was lopsided. “I had expected him to grovel for abandoning us during the long night. Instead, he insists that the Dreadfort would benefit from Robbett’s leadership. Apparently, Galbart might marry soon, get his own heir.”

 

“Marry who?”

 

“I don’t know. It was just a feeling I got. What other use does a man have for another keep if all he has is a single heir? Robbett has only one son himself. Who does he need a keep for?”

 

That made her smile. “It’s greed, Jon. He isn’t thinking of his heir. He’s thinking of the empty keep that is ripe for the taking.”

 

“I told him he could take it up with the Lady of the Dreadfort. It’s her keep.”

 

That surprised a laugh out of her. “You didn’t.”

 

“I did,” he said, worrying his gloves in his hands. “I told him I was sure he remembered you, since he was the one who had insisted that you weren’t Stark enough because you were married to--to that man.”

 

“You can say his name, Jon,” she said. Her voice was barely a whisper. She hadn’t expected Jon to be so cross with Galbart Glover for something she had already half forgotten. “His name doesn’t matter anymore.”

 

“We should make sure the Dreadfort gets renamed,” he said. “Whoever we decide to award it to, it should finally be rid of that horrible name.”

 

“I have never seen it, thank the Gods,” Sansa said. “I have only heard of the horrors. We need to decide soon. The smallfolk there need a lord to provide for them before winter takes them. There is no way of knowing if the supplies we have been sending are being distributed fairly.”

 

“I could ride out and visit them.”

 

Sansa frowned. “Have the wounds on your legs healed, then?”

 

Jon smiled in acceptance, and they settled into a comfortable silence. She let it stretch, thinking once more over her plan, looking for gaps and cracks. Once she was certain it was as sound as it was going to get, she turned to face him.

 

“I need you to tell me everything about her,” she said. Jon frowned, clearly taken aback a bit. “Please Jon, it  _ is  _ important, or I wouldn’t ask.”

 

And so he did. The words seemed to spill from him, as if he had waited a long time to be able to speak his mind, to talk about a temperamental girl with too much power in her hands. He talked of a woman surrounded by sycophants, a ragtag team of people with their own agendas that were attracted to her like a moth to a flame. He told her how his pleas for help fell on deaf ears, even when he showed her the evidence he found in a cave beneath Dragonstone. Nothing would happen unless he knelt. No help at all. Even the dragonglass was a result of Tyrion intervening and convincing the queen, he was sure of it.

 

“So you decided to bend the knee?” She couldn’t control how her brows furrowed in displeasure when she said it. The words left a bad taste in her mouth.

 

“No, I didn’t,” he said. Sansa opened her mouth but he barrelled on before she could think of something to say. “I simply let her believe it. She believes that everyone will love her, will bow down to her, if they just knew her. She was waiting for it, in a way. So only a couple of well-chosen words were enough.”

 

“You did not physically kneel to her?” Jon shook his head. Her head was spinning, she felt giddy. This was… useful. And wonderful. She needed to talk to Lord Varys. “No one witnessed the kneeling?”

 

“There wasn’t one. I called her my queen, and she is so ignorant of our customs she didn’t know it wasn’t binding. She thought I didn’t physically kneel because I was--well, I wasn’t… decent enough to get out of bed.”

 

Sansa cocked her head, trying to decipher his meaning. “Was this before or after you bed her?”

 

“Before,” he said, coloring at the mention of bedsport. “I had fallen into the ice water, North of the Wall. When we left to catch that wight to show Cersei. As much good as that did us.”

 

Sansa leaned forward to pat his hand where it was clutched onto the armrest. “Cersei was an unknown enemy. You couldn’t have thought that she would do something other than what her brother told you she would. Forget about her for the moment. You never told me you fell into ice water beyond the Wall.”

 

“There were too many wights,” Jon said. “Some Walkers too. Uncle Benjen... ”

 

“Is that how Uncle Benjen died?”

 

“Aye,” said Jon heavily. Another death that he would blame himself for. “I made it back, on his horse. I don’t know how. Maybe his horse knew the way. I woke up to her sitting next to me. I wouldn't have done it if I thought there was any other way, Sansa. She wouldn't lis--"

 

"Why were you indecent if you had just survived such a horrible ranging?"

 

Jon flushed again. "My clothes had frozen on me. So they had to be cut off... I was just bundled up in furs, for warmth."

 

Sansa felt anger surge through her. So he was lying naked in bed after a horrible ordeal when the Dragon Queen decided to sit beside him and... what? Stare at his slumbering form? How vulnerable had Jon felt? She had half a mind to ask where Longclaw had been, but she doubted it would have been much defense with a woman who seemingly had no concept of decent behaviour. She tried a smile, trying to think of something light-hearted to say. "You charmed her with your naked beauty, then?"

 

But Jon didn't smile like she had expected him to. "Perhaps," he said. "Later, when I was called to her chambers."

 

For a while, she didn't say anything, trying not to imagine the frustration and helplessness Jon must have felt while dealing with this queen. There was no reason to remind him of that. No reason to think of Jon bartering his body for the North. "Do you know why I am asking you all this, Jon?"

 

"Because you wanted to see me blush like a maiden?"

 

"That wasn't the primary reason, I assure you," she said with a smile. "I am getting ready for battle." When he quirked a brow in question, she elaborated: "Daenerys Targaryen is having supper with us tomorrow. I invited her retinue as well. It is time to start fighting back, a whisper at a time.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I battled with the feeling that there isn't enough happening in this chapter, that it isn't exciting enough. But then I realized if went from action piece to action piece without the filler of how or why something happened, I would literally be writing season 8 again. So, yeah. That snapped me out of it.


End file.
